


Drink Deep and Die

by blackmountainbones, BobSkeleton



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Crack, Frottage, M/M, Magic Eye posters, Sex Clubs, Shaman Council, Twilight spoilers, Vampirephobia, Zorro on Gay Night was a LOOK, enthusiastic conesent, fear and arousal are both exciting, hot nonbinary vampire representation, look the London vampire scene went through an 80s pop star phase, that thing where you hate the monsters because you’re scared of the monster within, vampire-related blood stuff, we’re not saying David Bowie and Prince are vampires but we’re not NOT saying it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27284899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmountainbones/pseuds/blackmountainbones, https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobSkeleton/pseuds/BobSkeleton
Summary: Howard Moon has always been a bit vampirephobic. It’s no big deal—until the night Vince accidentally gets turned by a vampire. How will Vince hide this part of himself from his best friend? What's Howard's deal with vampires anyway? Will he reject Vince, or will Howard learn to confront what he fears, and finally resolve the years of unresolved sexual tension between himself and Vince in the process?
Relationships: Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Comments: 12
Kudos: 26





	Drink Deep and Die

**Author's Note:**

> We started writing a serious vampire fic ([The Stranger from the Shadows](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27163972)), but during the writing process we made so many jokes that by the time we finished our scary vampire fic, we had enough material for a funny one! Enjoy this ridiculous little Boosh Halloween special.
> 
> Mad thanks to [BadBadBucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadBadBucky/pseuds/BadBadBucky) for their tireless beta work. We'd be worse if it weren't for your insight!

Sweat dripped from Vince’s temples down his cheeks, smudging his perfectly-applied contour, but he didn’t care. He raised his bare arms, feeling the tight Spandex of his sleeveless skintight high-necked jumpsuit move with his body as he danced.The bass thumped down through the heels of his boots and he flipped his hair in time with the music, causing a squealing reaction from the crowd dancing around him. Boys, girls, somewhere in between… it didn’t matter. No one was immune to the mesmerizing beauty of Vince’s hair. 

Including the tall stranger in the cape hovering around the periphery. They watched Vince, their silver eyes and hair flashing in the strobing lights. Vince only noticed because they had such a wicked cape. He met the stranger’s eye and winked, hoping he could get them alone later to ask where they shopped. And maybe get them alone for other things, too. 

An image of Howard dressed in his tan (or as Howard called it, “monogamous walnut”) dressing gown popped into Vince’s mind, but he shook it out with his hair and chanced another glance at the mysterious stranger in the corner. They were gone, disappeared into the dark club, despite the packed dancefloor.

Someone on the dancefloor edged closer to Vince. They were tall—Vince could feel them looming, When he turned around, the stranger in the cape smiled and swooped an arm out, dragging the fabric of their cape against Vince’s bare arm. The fabric was soft and thick: a dense velvet on the outside, a silver silk brocade on the inside. Vince shivered from the sensation. A really, really good fabric could feel almost as good as an orgasm, especially for someone who loved clothing as much as Vince. 

When they smiled, Vince noticed the sharp canines. His breath quickened and all he could utter was an awed, “Wow.” 

They were tall, light-haired, with those silver eyes. For once, Vince found himself not The Confuser, but The Confused, and he, too, found he didn’t mind. 

The person turned Vince to face them, letting the loose fabric of their cape dangle against Vince’s back. They leaned in close, their lips just barely brushing the skin of Vince’s neck, murmuring something that Vince couldn’t hear over the bass.

“What?” Vince shouted.

They swiped their lips up Vince’s jaw, settling just over his ear. “Care for a drink?”

Vince smiled. This was going better than he could have imagined.

He let the stranger lead him over to a booth tucked behind the bar. From here, the music faded into a background hum. Vince settled into the booth as they went to the bar to place their orders. The cape clung to their body as they walked, revealing the broad line of their shoulders and the slope of their haunches beneath the fabric, and Vince looked on appreciatively.

They came back, a Flirtini in one hand, and a wine glass full of the darkest red wine Vince had ever seen in the other. They handed Vince the glass, and Vince clinked their drinks together with a “Cheers!” The red wine swirled in the stranger’s cup, releasing a scent that was animal, mineralic, and strangely familiar.

Vince sipped his drink nervously. It wasn’t like him to get shy, but he didn’t know what to say under the pressure of the stranger’s gaze. “I’m Vince,” he said, giving his most charming smile. 

“A pleasure,” replied the stranger, sipping from their glass. In one smooth motion, they set the glass on the table and pressed a cool kiss to the underside of Vince’s jaw. His eyelids fluttered shut and he tabled his drink, too, the better to touch their magnificent silver hair. 

The stranger had given no name, and Vince didn’t bother to ask, distracted as he was by the skillful way they kissed, licked, and nibbled along his jawline and down his neck. They traced one long finger down the side of Vince’s neck, sliding their fingernail between the high neck of Vince’s jumpsuit and his skin. Slowly, teasingly, they crooked their finger, pulling the fabric down to expose the pale, smooth line of Vince’s neck, then traced the path their finger had made with their mouth.

One of their sharp canines caught on Vince’s adam’s apple, making him whine. The stranger noticed, and they scraped their teeth gently, all the way over to the side of Vince’s neck, just behind his jawbone. Vince was wriggling in his seat, his Spandex jumpsuit already starting to feel constricting...

When the tension reached an apex, the stranger bit down, burrowing their teeth into Vince’s skin with a pain so sharp and blinding, everything went white. Vince slumped into unconsciousness, right there in the booth. His body drooped, and he knocked the Flirtini off the table and onto his lap. Neither he nor the stranger paid it any mind. 

Which was exactly how Leroy found him thirty minutes later—slumped over the table of a booth, covered in spilt alcohol, perfectly alone and completely out of it. 

“Mate,” he said, shaking Vince awake. “Mate, what happened?”

Vince raised his head slowly, squinting in the dark, pulsing room. His neck hurt, his sequined jumpsuit felt too tight and uncomfortable, and he wanted nothing more than to go home to Howard, put on his pajamas, and crawl into bed. 

Leroy’s face blurred into focus, the thumping bass stabbing pain into Vince’s temples. “I want to go,” he said. Leroy looked confused then shook his head, and helped Vince to his feet, half-carrying him out of the club to the taxi queue. 

“What happened? Did you take something?” Leroy asked. Vince had to read his lips—his ears were still ringing from the earsplitting volume of the club’s music. 

“They must’ve put something in my drink,” he said unsteadily, but he knew that wasn’t true. After all, he’d hardly sipped his drink before spilling it. He didn’t feel drugged—just exhausted, unsteady, and sore. “My neck hurts,” he whined. 

Leroy got up in his space and tugged down the neck of Vince’s jumpsuit. “Christy,” he exhaled. “Whoever they was, they took a proper bite out of you. You might want to have that looked at, mate.” 

“No,” said Vince, shaking his head emphatically in his refusal. “No A&E. Wanna go home.” 

“You sure? I can—”

“Naboo’ll look at it for me. I want to go home,” Vince insisted. Leroy nodded—he didn’t think Vince’s weird roommate with the pet gorilla was qualified to practice medicine, but Vince was adamant, so he walked his friend out to the curb to wait for a cab. When one came along, Leroy ushered Vince into the backseat, its pleather seats crackling beneath his weight. 

“You gonna be alright?” Leroy asked. Vince nodded. “Stop taking shit from strangers, yeah?” He slipped Vince a twenty pound note. “Feel better, I’ll call ya tomorrow.” He slammed the door shut, which made Vince wince in pain, and he gave the driver the Nabootique’s address. 

Vince didn’t remember much from the drive home. He felt tired, thirsty, clammy, and his bones all ached. It felt like he had a fever—cold one minute, sweating the next. The cabbie’s dubious driving skills made his stomach flop and more than once he feared he’d be sick. 

At last, the cab screeched to a halt in front of the neon exterior of the Nabootique. Vince stumbled out and scrabbled to get the key in the lock. When he did, the sight of the stairs nearly defeated him. 

“Howard?” Vince called, his voice cracking. He checked the clock on the far wall of the Nabootique—it was half past eleven. Howard might still be up. He dragged himself up the stairs, which was exhausting, and he had to stop and catch his breath twice before he managed to stumble into the living room.

Howard was bundled up in a brown plaid throw, intently watching some silent film—or else a movie with the sound down, Howard was prone to doing weird things like that just to prove good acting needed no dialogue—a half-eaten package of biscuits on the table in front of him. He was perfectly awake—had heard Vince call his name, in fact—but he wanted to prove a point. _Some_ people kept decent hours, and Vince needed to respect that. 

He slumped down, resting his head on a throw pillow, and pretended to be asleep. He kept one of his tiny eyes open just a crack, just enough to see Vince stumble into the flat in his four-inch platforms.

Vince was weaving, and holding on to the wall to keep himself upright, but he didn’t look _drunk_ —Howard should know, he’d seen Vince drunk hundreds of times. His pale skin always got flushed, for one, and Vince was pale and drawn-looking. He looked positively ill. 

Howard’s irritation abated a little, but not that much. He could deal with drunk Vince, but not Vince sick from whatever trendy drug he’d scarfed at the club—at thirty, Vince should have known better than to accept pills from strangers. He nestled into the blanket a bit, hoping Vince would leave him be.

But Vince leaned over, resting his hands on his knees, breath heaving. “Howard?” he said. His voice was so small and weak, it shook Howard’s protective instincts awake. 

Howard opened his eyes and made a show of yawning and stretching dramatically. “What is it, Vince? Some of us keep decent hours—or try to.” Now that he wasn’t pretending to be asleep, Howard could get a good look at Vince, who was pale and glistening with a sheen of sweat. He swayed on his feet, and Howard couldn’t help but to reach up and steady him. “Vince?” 

Vince met his eyes, and Howard was surprised at how normal they looked—no dilated pupils, just wide in fear. “Vince, you can’t just take _drugs_ from strangers, you know better—”

“I didn’t!” cried Vince, reaching a hand out for Howard. Howard let Vince grip his arm—the younger man looked ready to vomit. 

“If you didn’t take anything, what happened?” Howard asked. 

“Dunno,” replied Vince. “I was there, I had a sip of a Flirtini—honest, that’s all I had—and there was this _person_ and then I woke up alone, and my neck hurts, is it okay, Howard?” 

Vince peeled back the high neck of his jumpsuit, revealing his throat, the sight of which made Howard’s stomach clench. There was a large puncture mark—no, _two_ puncture marks, right next to each other—on the side of Vince’s neck, right above his jugular vein. They were red and inflamed, oozing a few drops of blood. “Brian Christ,” breathed Howard, jumping up in a panic. “That looks like... Vince, were you bitten by... a _vampire?”_ His heart was beating fast. Vince _knew_ how Howard felt about vampires: he _hated_ them. “You know better than to bring _vampirism_ into our home!”

Vince covered the bite with his hand. “No, it wasn’t a vampire,” he said, but secretly, he thought, _But they sure did look an awful lot like one_. He felt slightly guilty for lying to Howard, but to be honest, Vince was dizzy and exhausted. He didn’t have the energy to deal with Howard’s vampire phobia right now... all he wanted was sleep. “It was a... a racoon.”

Howard pursed his lips, looking unconvinced. “Are you sure it was a raccoon? It looks awful like a vampire bite...”

“I’m sure,” Vince said. “You know, black eyes, little hands? Stripey tail?” Howard still looked skeptical, but Vince made sure to bat his eyes innocently. It was a dirty trick, but it had the intended effect: Howard immediately turned back to the bite, eying it with concern.

He was silent for a long moment, then cleared his throat. “Come on, little man. That needs looking after.” 

Vince nodded pathetically, and followed Howard to their small bathroom, leaning heavily on against him for support. 

Vince sat on the toilet while Howard dressed his wound. Vince’s eyes filled with tears more than once, but gratefully, Howard was spared any midnight histrionics. His earlier irritation had dissipated—something had hurt Vince. Some filthy racoon had harmed him, and not only that, whoever he’d been with at the club had left him alone and bleeding. Some friends Vince had, he thought to himself.

Howard made quick work of applying first aid. Luckily, the wound was small and didn’t appear to be bleeding anymore. “There,” said Howard, applying a neon plaster. “I cleaned it as best as I could, but you’ll want to go to the A&E in the morning, have a doctor check you for rabies.”

“It’s just a bite, Howard. I’ll be fine by morning,” Vince objected. 

“Rabies can be fatal, Vince,” Howard sniffed.

“If it’s still bothering me in the morning, I’ll ask Naboo to take a look at it,” Vince promised.

Howard bit his lip, trying to stifle a shout. It wouldn’t do to start scolding Vince—he could be stubborn when he wanted to, and if Howard pushed too much, he’d refuse to even do that. “We’ll see what Naboo says,” he sighed. “For now, wash up and brush your teeth. You can take a nice bubble bath tomorrow if you feel up to it, as long as you keep the bandage dry.” 

“What about work?” asked Vince, looking up at Howard pathetically through moist lashes. 

“I think you can take a day off to recover,” said Howard with a half smile. “We’ll talk to Naboo tomorrow. For now, clean up. I’ll get you your Colobus pajamas, yeah?”

Vince nodded and quirked a little smile at Howard. “Cheers, Howard.” 

Vince slept all day long, only waking at eight in the evening, long after the sun had sunken below the horizon. He was still feeling dizzy, and so, so thirsty.

Howard had left a glass of water at Vince’s bedside sometime during the night. Vince took a long sip, then sputtered. The water felt chalky in his mouth, and it did _nothing_ to satisfy his thirst. Wrinkling his nose, he got up and slowly started recalling the events of the previous night—the cape, the stranger, and the bite.

Vince subconsciously fiddled with the bandage Howard had affixed to his neck. Beneath the cotton and gauze, his skin felt tender. When he prodded at the wound, an ache traveled all the way down to his spine. His whole body was shaky and sore, and not in a good way.

At least Howard had said Vince could have a bubble bath, as long as he kept the bandage dry. Cheered a little by the thought, Vince drifted to the bathroom and ran himself a hot bath full to the brim with bubbles. The soak felt good, eased his tight, sore muscles, but he was still damnably thirsty, and no matter how much he scrubbed, he felt dirty. 

When he emerged, he went straight to the kitchen to make some tea. His throat felt like sandpaper—he _needed_ to hydrate. But the same thing happened with the tea as the water—no matter how much he drank, he couldn’t quench his thirst. Worse, the liquid seemed to just gather in his stomach. Vince pinched at his midsection—yup, he was definitely bloating. He put the teacup on the counter, eying it suspiciously. 

“Howard?” called Vince in exasperation. Howard would know what to do. 

“Howard went for fish and chips,” came a lisp from down the hall. 

“Oh,” said Vince. He edged down the hall to stand outside of Naboo’s room, a cloud of marijuana and ape wafting out into the hall. “Hey, Naboolio, I have a question.” 

“Is it important?” asked the Shaman. 

“Yeah, I’m thirsty, but I can’t drink anything,” said Vince. "It all started after something bit me..."

A sputter came from Naboo’s room. Dennis, the Head Shaman, popped his head out, looking ashen-faced and panicked. “Did—did you say you can’t drink?” 

“Yeah, I said that. Why do you look so weird?” Vince asked.

“Oh, God,” moaned Dennis, putting his head in his hands. “You have hydrophobia.” 

“I have _what_?” said Vince, feeling his skin. It still felt perfectly hydrated. 

“ _Rabies_!” cried Dennis. 

“Oh, fuck’s sake,” sighed Naboo, finally coming to the door to get between Vince and the panicking Dennis. “He doesn’t have rabies. Look, I just put some new coals on the hookah, so can you wait like, fifteen minutes? Then I’ll be glad to—” 

“You don’t need to wait, sunshine!” came a horribly familiar, nasally voice. Tony Harrison poked his head out of Naboo’s bedroom doorway. “Hello, lovely! Did you have a run-in with a sick raccoon?” 

“I mean, I have, but not lately,” said Vince, who always felt weirded out by Tony Harrison. And if Tony Harrison was here, that meant Saboo and maybe even Kirk were all here, too. Vince suddenly felt very tired. 

Naboo sighed. “Come in, let’s look you over.” 

Vince passed through the beaded curtain over Naboo’s door. His tiny room was full of thick smoke, and the various members of the Shaman Council lounged about on the floor in various states of inebriation. 

Tony Harrison scuttled forward on his tentacles, tilting his pink head back to get a glimpse at Vince. “You don’t look your normal radiant self,” commented the pink menace. 

“By which he means we all can’t ogle you in some kind of latex, sparkly onesie,” replied Saboo, taking a hit off a bong he was sharing with Bollo. 

“Be nice,” said Tony Harrison. “She doesn’t feel well tonight.” 

“We playing Doctors, Naboo?” asked Saboo, looking interested. “What’s the matter?”

“I can’t drink anything even though I’m thirsty, and I got bitten last night,” Vince said.

“What bit you? A bat?” asked Saboo.

“Ah, that sounds like rabies to me! I lost my old familiar to rabies...” Dennis remarked with a faraway look on his face. “Topsy was a good raccoon. She was taken before her time, bit by a bat, she was—”

“Shut up,” Naboo sniped, “no one wants to hear about the tragic demise of your familiar.”

“No, I was not bitten by a bat, you cleft, just a regular human person,” Vince said. “Wearing a cape. And with really sharp teeth.” He covered the bandage with his hand and grimaced.

“Well, let’s see,” Naboo said, prying back the bandage.

The two puncture wounds on Vince’s neck looked gruesome. They’d begun to scab over, but the skin around them was still red and inflamed, hot to the touch. “Did you go dancing beneath the full moon in the Black Forest by any chance? Or get into a coffin and take a nap?”

“No, and no!” Vince said. “I was dancing with someone, and they bought me a drink, and I took one sip and then bam! They bit me, and next thing I know, Leroy’s shaking me awake.”

“Aw, pet,” said Tony Harrison, resting a tentacle on Vince’s boot. “Let’s have a talk about guarding your drink on a night out. It’s very simple for a pretty thing like you to get roofied without knowing it.”

Vince shook his head. “No, I been roofied before,” he said. “This ain’t it.”

While Vince, Tony Harrison, and Saboo spiraled into an inane argument, Naboo reached into the pockets of his purple robe and extracted a white stick. “Shut up,” he said, thrusting the stick into Vince’s hands. “Go pee on that. Wait fifteen minutes, then we’ll know what’s wrong.” 

“I’m not taking a piss here in front of all them!” cried Vince. 

“Go to the loo, you idiot,” lisped Naboo. 

Vince grumbled and left the smoky bedroom, returning in a few minutes to lewd comments from Tony Harrison and Kirk. He was still parched, and the various vapors in the room weren’t helping. He did try some of Naboo’s gummy candies, but experienced the same uncomfortable reaction he’d had when he had tried water and tea—not enough saliva in his mouth to make it go down.

A few moments later, the white stick started glowing a neon red. “What’s that mean?” asked Vince, his eyes wide with worry.

“Oh,” said Naboo, reading the stick. “It says you’re a vampire.” 

Vince grabbed the stick. It read “U R VAMPIRE.” 

“Oh, God,” moaned Vince, suddenly panicked. “Howard… Howard can never know.” 

“Why not?” asked Bollo. Judging by the way Vince dressed and his fascination with capes and Dracula, Bollo would have expected Vince to be overjoyed at the news that he was a vampire. After all, he spent enough time pretending to be one—

“You don’t understand,” Vince said. “Howard _hates_ vampires. Ever since we were kids, and saw Killer Vampires from Planet B... he told me if he ever met a vampire, he'd shove a stake right in its heart!”

“I’m sure that whatsisname would be understanding if you simply explained the situation to him,” said Saboo, barely concealing an eye roll. 

“He’ll stab me in the heart while I sleep!” Vince exclaimed. “I don’t want to die!”

“Technically, you’re already dead,” Naboo deadpanned.

Just then, the beaded curtain rustled, and Howard’s head peeked through the doorway. 

“Who’s dead?” he asked, tiny eyes crinkled in worry.

Vince clapped a hand over Naboo’s mouth and plastered a smile on his face. “No one,” he answered quickly. “Dennis’s pet raccoon. Familiar. Died. From rabies. I have rabies.” Vince exhaled all the words in one breath. 

“You idiot,” groaned Saboo. 

“Hey now,” said Howard, gesturing placatingly at Saboo, “if the little man has rabies, there’s no need for name calling. What should we do, Naboo?”

Naboo sighed the world weary sigh of a centuries-old magical being dealing with two modern day idiots. “He needs time off work. Might want to sleep during the day. _Special diet,”_ he added with a meaningful glance at Vince. 

Vince gulped. He hadn’t even had a chance to think about that yet. 

“How long before he starts feeling better?” Howard asked.

Naboo shrugged. “Could be a while. Maybe even... an _eternity_.”

Howard looked confused, so Vince forced a laugh. “That Naboo! Always such a laugh. C’mon Howard, let’s get out of here.” He yanked Howard from the room, almost toppling the taller man in his rush to get away from the Shaman Council before they could spill his secret. 

“Rabies can be very serious, Vince,” Howard protested, looking concerned. His scent filled the small bedroom: rich and sweet as rum, with something dry like tobacco. Vince swallowed and forced himself to breathe through his mouth. That was worse—he could practically _taste_ Howard. Vince decided not to breathe at all. “We were zookeepers, after all. We are trained in the dangers of rabies, and it’s not to be taken lightly. Do you need to go to a doctor? The hospital?”

“No,” Vince said in a small, high-pitched voice. As an undead creature of the night, he didn’t _need_ to breathe, but he was still getting the hang of talking without using too much air. “That is, erm. It’s lined up already. I have to go early in the morning. Before you wake up. Before dawn, even.” 

“That early?” Howard asked. 

“Yeah, I dunno, Naboo says I shouldn’t go outside during the day. It’ll make the rabies worse or something,” Vince replied. Howard looked ready to burst into a monologue about the shortness of life, and Vince wasn’t really in the mood for that. Besides, he needed to get away from Howard before Vince lost control and gave him the fang, which, due to Howard’s vampirephobia, would be sure to cause a Howard crisis to end all Howard crises. “Anyway, don’t worry about it. I’ll be alright, Howard,” Vince assured him, trying to convince himself of the lie too.

Late that night, when Howard was sleeping, Vince sneaked back into Naboo’s room. The other Shaman were gone, thankfully, and he needed to ask some questions. Vince may have known a lot about vampire fashion, but he was a bit fuzzy on the particulars of _being_ a vampire. Aside from the whole drinking-blood-and-sleeping-during-the-day thing, Vince was surprised to discover he didn’t know much at all about his new undead state.

“So, Naboo,” he said. Naboo looked stoned out of his gourd, but this was the best bet Vince had to get some information. “I need to drink something, I’m dying of thirst and Howard smells really good. What do I do?” 

“Just take a little bit,” Naboo said. “He’ll be sore, but he’ll survive.”

“I can’t _eat_ Howard,” Vince protested. “He’s my best friend! And I told you, he _hates_ vampires.”

“Well, you’re going to have to eat _someone_ ,” Naboo said. “And soon, too. A recently-turned vampire has to feed within 48 hours of being turned, or else they’ll go into a feeding frenzy, biting everything in sight.”

“Well, that’s just great,” Vince griped, suddenly feeling very exhausted by this turn of events. “Where am I supposed to find someone to feed from? I can’t just bite someone against their will.”

Naboo dug into the pockets of his voluminous purple robe. He shoved a crumpled piece of paper into Vince’s hand. Vince accepted it; it was an advertisement of some sort... for a BDSM club?

He scrunched his nose, ready to be outraged, but Naboo interrupted him. “Look, just check it out, OK? Humans do all sorts of nasty things to get off—some people are into the whole ‘blood drinking’ thing. There’s a reason all the local vampires hang out at the Wharternburg Dungeon—the people who go there are _into_ that.” 

Vince ran his tongue over his teeth, considering. His canines already felt a little bit longer and sharper than usual. “Ok,” he said, pocketing the flyer. “I’ll think about it.”

Vince was resolved not to make any decisions until he’d had some time to think. But as the evening dragged on, the thirst got worse.

By midnight, Vince was going mad with it. Even his skin was tight. When he looked in the mirror, he saw a few fine lines on his forehead and around his mouth from the dehydration, which sent him into an immediate panic. If he was going to live forever, he couldn’t let the wrinkles set in on his very first day as a vampire. He shuddered to think what he would look like at age 330 if he failed to feed regularly. 

By the time Vince reached the club, his throat felt like it was on fire. He’d had strep as a child, and that was _nothing_ next to the burning he felt now. And every single person he passed on the street smelled _incredible—_ mouthwateringly sweet or delectably savory. 

A very large bouncer stood at the entry, arms folded across his barrel chest, but he took one look at Vince in his skintight jumpsuit and flowing black cape and nodded him inside. 

Vince smelled a bouquet of human notes mingling with the sweat of the patrons, could practically _hear_ their hearts pumping and their veins pulsing beneath their skin. Everyone seemed at ease, like they knew what they were doing. They were attired for this kind of club—lots of chains and straps and leather—and Vince would have blushed with embarrassment if he’d had any blood left in him. 

Vince walked awkwardly to the bar, doubting they’d serve Flirtinis before remembering he couldn’t drink one even if they did. Well, he _could_ , but just as water could not slake his thirst, alcohol would not make him drunk. Only blood could. 

He took a seat at the bar. From here, he had a view of the entire club. There was a large stage at the far end of the room; a crowd was gathered around it, watching the man strapped to a large iron cross whimper and whine while a woman dressed in thigh-high boots and a corset lashed him with a whip. The sides of the club were lined with small, private booths. Though they were dark, Vince could see well enough to notice all kinds of people engaged in all sorts of lewd acts.

He gazed at the crowd around the stage, trying to figure out how he could find someone to bite. The thought of it turned his stomach a little—he’d never been able to tolerate violence. Even the occasional tussles between the animals at the zoo had left him queasy and tearful. Usually, Howard was the one who had to clean up afterwards.

He swallowed thickly, the back of his throat gluey and dry. 

“Oi,” came a voice beside him. Vince jumped, startled. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” 

It was Ebola, one of the goth girls from he and Howard’s ill-fated attempt at gothic seduction. “Oh, hey!” greeted Vince, enthusiastically, grinning. He was pleased to see a familiar face, and felt a little more like himself. 

“Nice fangs,” Ebola said. “Where’d you get them?”

Encouraged, Vince leaned in and whispered, “They’re real.”

“As if,” Ebola said. “We’ve seen your so-called sorcery. Those aren’t any more real than that was.” 

“They are!” Vince insisted. “Wanna feel them?”

Ebola’s eyes lit up and she reached out a finger to touch Vince’s elongated canines. She attempted to wiggle the tooth, but it stayed firmly in Vince’s mouth, and her eyes widened when she realized they weren’t glue-ons. Vince could smell and feel and almost _taste_ the blood beneath her skin. His mouth pooled with saliva, and it took all of his self-control to pull away before he did something terrible. 

“You alright?” Ebola asked. Her voice had softened a little. “You went all funny there for a moment.” 

Vince just nodded. 

“It’s okay,” Ebola said soothingly. “I think I know what’s going on.” She pulled down the high neck of her Victorian gothic blouse, revealing two red marks on her otherwise-perfect neck. 

Vince’s eyes widened. 

“I thought so,” she nodded. “Come with me.” 

She took Vince’s hand in her fishnet gloves, and led him to a dark corner. A booth was concealed inside, and in the shadows, he made out the form of Anthrax. 

“Look who I found,” Ebola crooned. She leaned in and kissed Anthrax on the cheek. “And guess what? He’s like you.” 

Anthrax sat up then, piercing Vince with her gaze. “Are you sure?” she asked Ebola. The blonde nodded eagerly. “Vince? Is it true?”

“Depends, I guess,” Vince answered. “Is what true?”

“Are you a vampire?” Anthrax asked, not bothering to mince words. When Vince looked into his lap and didn’t answer, she lifted his chin with her finger. “Come now, you can tell me,” she whispered, and smiled, showing fangs that matched Vince’s.

“They aren’t… fake?” Vince asked. 

“No more than yours,” she replied. “And, judging by the looks of you, you need to feed.” 

“Yes,” said Vince, nodding. “ _Yes,_ please.” 

“It’s alright,” said Anthrax. “I took a little from Ebola—just got carried away—but if she’s game, you can have some.” Anthrax smiled wickedly. “I’ll share.” 

Ebola nodded, putting a hand on Vince’s knee. “I don’t mind, Vince,” she said softly. “I like it. And I feel fine. You can, if you want.” 

Vince _did_ want, more than anything. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. “I’ve never done this before, and—”

“Shh,” Anthrax soothed. “I’ll show you.” She unfastened the button at the back of Ebola’s neck and let the high collar fall down, exposing her throat to the collar bone. “Find a nice soft spot—don’t go for the carotid unless you want to kill them,” Anthrax advised. “I’ll get you started, how’s that?”

Vince nodded, gulping the saliva pooled in his mouth. Anthrax lowered her head and kissed Ebola’s throat. Ebola’s eyes fluttered closed and she sighed happily. When Anthrax pulled away, there were two fresh wounds on her lover’s throat. 

“There,” she said, licking her lips. “Drink. But go slowly, for both your sakes.” 

Vince, mesmerized by the trickle of red falling down Ebola’s white throat, leaned forward and lapped it up. When he reached the bite marks, he sucked, letting Ebola’s delicious blood fill his mouth before swallowing. It warmed him like whiskey but filled like a feast. He moaned against her throat, not out of arousal, but because it was _so delicious._

“Good, Vince,” he heard Anthrax say, but she sounded miles away. “Easy. You can take a little more. She’s okay.” 

Vince sucked, open-mouthed and making lewd noises. He wasn’t sure how long it went on—he was lost in the ecstasy of being fulfilled. 

Finally, Anthrax placed a hand on top of his head. “Enough,” she said, pulling him away. He was breathing heavily, as was Ebola. She was pale, her skin glistening in the low light with a sheen of sweat. 

Vince felt bad, worried he’d hurt her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No,” Ebola panted. “I’m fine. Anthrax…” she held out her arms for her lover. Anthrax captured her mouth and reached a hand down between them. Vince knew what was happening and felt like he should leave, but he also needed answers. He settled for sidling to the far end of the booth to give them some privacy. 

Ebola came quietly and rested her head against the plush seat of the booth. “Vince,” said Anthrax. Vince turned, and she crooked her finger at him. “Our saliva can seal the wound. Lick the bite marks.” 

Vince did as he was told, licking over the marks Anthrax had made on her lover’s skin. When he pulled back, Ebola grinned languidly at him. He kissed her cheek. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

“She’ll rest now,” said Anthrax.

“Thank you for showing me, and for… sharing,” said Vince. 

Anthrax smiled at him. “It’s Vampire Code of Honor... we look out for each other.” She stroked Ebola’s hair; Ebola responded by burying her face in Anthrax’s cleavage. “You’re here alone?”

Vince nodded.

“Hmm,” Anthrax murmured. “Most unusual. Most vampires stick around after they’ve turned someone for a bit, show them the ropes...”

Vince just shrugged. He didn’t want to go into the whole story right now—it was depressing, and he’d just had his first feed. The feeling was not unlike being drunk, and he just wanted to enjoy it while he could, before the hunger set in again.

“And that bloke you live with… Harold?”

“Howard,” Vince corrected. 

“Yeah,” Anthrax shuddered, suppressing a memory of the worst night out she’d ever had. “He won’t give you blood?” 

“No, he _hates_ vampires,” Vince said. “Has done since we were kids. If he ever found out what I am, he’d put a stake through my heart.”

Anthrax wrinkled her nose. Vince was going to have a difficult time hiding his... condition, especially because he and that Howard bloke lived together. Hell, if she was remembering correctly, they even shared a room. How was Vince going to hide a coffin from his flatmate when they slept in the same room? “Well,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “come back tomorrow night and I’ll show you how to find someone of your own. I won’t share Ebola all the time.” 

“Right,” said Vince nodding. “And she’s… okay... with it?”

Anthrax laughed. “You’d be amazed how many humans are willing to give themselves to us. I’m told it’s a uniquely pleasurable experience.” She reached over and tucked a stray hair behind Ebola’s ear. Ebola murmured contentedly, and Anthrax pressed a kiss to the crown of her bleached head.

The moment was so intimate Vince had to look away. A pang of jealousy hit him in the chest, right where his heart would have been beating if he’d still been alive. He found himself wishing that he could have what Anthrax and Ebola had, and if he was being honest with himself, he already knew who he wished he could have it with. 

Howard was fast asleep when Vince arrived back at the flat. He’d spent the rest of the night skulking in the streets and practicing his vampire skills (namely how to look really hot and dangerous from the shadows), and now it was close to dawn.

Howard must have opened the curtains before he’d gone to bed: the last rays of moonlight spilled in through the open window, illuminating his skin, his face pressed against the pillow. He snuffled a bit as Vince tugged the curtains closed. The heavy blackout curtain, on which he’d insisted when they’d moved into the flat, knocked over his lipstick tray, sending them clattering across his vanity.

“Vince?” Howard said, sleepily pushing himself into a sitting position in his bed.

“Shh,” Vince whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

Howard squinted at the clock. “You’re home late,” he said, voice accusatory.

“I had my rabies shot this morning, remember?” Vince lied. “I can’t go out in the sun until the rabies are gone.”

“About that...” Howard said. “I don’t remember anything about sunlight and rabies from the zoo? We had that rabies outbreak in the equine pen back in the Zooniverse, and we never had to keep them away from the sun—”

“That’s horses,” Vince bluffed. “Humans, uh, have different symptoms.”

Howard nodded sleepily. “Makes sense,” he mumbled. By the time Vince slipped between his sheets, Howard was already snoring. 

Vince tried to stay awake, but the birds had already begun chirping—dawn must have broken. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he fell into a sleep as deep and still as death. 

Howard awoke again later than he would have liked—his normal morning routine was cut a little short (no time for Jazzercise), but he did make a point to check Vince. 

The little man was out cold—literally. Howard felt his forehead for a fever and was surprised to find the skin cold as a gravestone. He grabbed the quilt off his own bed and draped it over Vince, hoping it would warm him. 

He was so _still,_ too. Usually, Vince shuffled around in his sleep. Sometimes he’d talk or make noise, and his eyes always darted visibly beneath his eyelids—consequence of having such an active dream life. But this morning, Vince was so still it was alarming. His chest barely rose and fell and his skin was cold to the touch. He didn’t look so much asleep as _dead_.

Howard felt uneasy, and resolved to speak to Naboo as soon as possible. Maybe, if it wasn’t busy at the Nabootique, he could sneak upstairs to check on Vince during his lunch break.

But Howard had no such luck. Today, of all days, the Nabootique had actual _customers._ They’d also received a shipment of Chinese finger puzzles, and between customers, Howard had been obliged to take stock, price, and rearrange the displays to showcase the new inventory. By the time he managed to cash out the register, it was well past 7 o’clock.

Howard rushed upstairs, anxious to check in on Vince’s progress. He was worried about Vince’s decision to entrust his medical care to Naboo, especially after having received such a nasty bite. Perhaps if Vince wasn’t feeling better, he’d be able to convince him to go to the A & E...

He skidded to a stop at the top of the stairs. There was Vince, standing at the kitchen counter, sipping a glass of something as dark and red as blood, looking perfectly fine, if a little pale and sleep-mussed.

Howard’s emotions skidded all over the place—he was happy to see Vince up and about. But the color and consistency of the liquid in Vince’s glass looked suspiciously like _blood._ Howard wasn’t a medical doctor, nor did he have a doctorate in chemistry from Timothy Leary, but he was pretty certain that drinking blood was not a proper treatment for the disease. A thudding beat of panic pulsed through him. “Vince,” he said. 

“Alright, Howard?” Vince asked, grinning. He looked pale, but otherwise normal. “How was it today?”

“What’s in the cup? That’s not _blood,_ is it?” Howard swallowed a mouthful of nausea as he asked the question. His heart rate spiked, and his stomach went a little weird, the same way it always did when he thought about vampires. 

Vince’s eyes widened, almost guiltily, before assuming a look of complete innocence. “This?” he asked, looking into the cup. “Come off it, Howard. It’s not blood. It’s an herbal tincture Naboo made up for me. To help me heal quicker.” Vince sniffed it and wrinkled his nose. “Not the best, but…” 

Howard narrowed his eyes. 

“You want to try some?” offered Vince.

Howard backed away. “No. You know how I feel about Naboo’s so-called remedies.” 

Vince nodded and took another sip. Howard felt slightly less panicky, but still concerned for Vince’s wellbeing. “Did you just wake up?” Howard asked. 

“Yeah,” Vince said, ruffling his hair sleepily. “I was well tired. It was great though, spending a whole day in bed.” 

“How are you feeling?” Howard asked. 

“Alright, I suppose,” answered Vince. “Tired, still. Weird, innit?”

“Can I make you something to eat? Some toast, perhaps?” Howard offered.

“No,” said Vince emphatically. “I mean, no thanks. Not really hungry.” 

Howard shot Vince a concerned glance. “Howard, I can see your little brain wheels turning and grinding,” Vince said. “Don’t worry. I’m doing alright. I’ll just need a few days of rest.”

Howard mumbled under his breath. He didn’t like any of this—Vince needed a real doctor. “Are you sure that Naboo is qualified to treat you?” Howard asked. “I’m not sure Naboo’s brand of, erm, _herbal remedy_ is appropriate for something as serious as rabies? Shouldn’t you get a second opinion?”

Vince rolled his eyes and dragged Howard to the living room. “Naboo’s a doctor, remember, Howard? He got that phd from Timothy Leary back in the ‘60s.”

Naboo, followed by Bollo, walked into the room at exactly that moment. “It’s true,” he said. “I have a diploma on the wall of my room, right next to the Magic Eye print.”

“Naboo,” Howard said, “that’s a doctorate in chemistry, not medicine, and you only got it so you could make your own LSD.”

“That not matter. Naboo still doctor,” Bollo protested, coming to the defense of his shaman.

Naboo nodded enigmatically. 

“Well, I’m making myself something to eat, then,” said Howard. He felt irritated, but he knew he shouldn’t be. There was that definite feeling of his three housemates ganging up on him or keeping a secret from him, and where Vince’s health was concerned, he wasn’t willing to play stupid games. “Should I make you some, Vince?”

“Nah,” Vince said. “Naboo said I should stick to, uh, a liquid diet. You know. For the rabies and everything.” He and Bollo and Naboo shared a glance that was not lost on Howard.

Howard turned to the counter and began passive-aggressively chopping vegetables for a soup so he didn’t have to look at them smirking behind his back. Let them. He’d discover their secrets, soon enough, for Howard was not only a man of action, he was a man of mystery. Well, solving mysteries. Not that he ever had. But he’d read it in a book, and watched Sherlock Holmes on the telly, so he reckoned he knew enough to suss out what a stoner, an ape, and a cross-dressing electro-poof were hiding.

Vince sat with Howard while he ate his soup, but didn’t have any. He didn’t have any tea, either, and even turned up his nose at the mention of hot chocolate. Howard just chalked it up to the effects of the rabies... but if the shot had worked, shouldn’t Vince be back to normal by now?

He certainly looked better than he had yesterday. His skin was still pale, but not the bloodless, lifeless kind of pale it had been yesterday. Perhaps, Howard thought, it just took a few days for the shot to take effect. He missed the Zooniverse—had they still been employed at the zoo, Howard would have been able to talk to the other keepers about Vince’s condition (rabies was a common concern amongst a group of people who dealt with all sorts of exotic animals on a daily basis). But Vince refused to see an actual medical doctor, and Howard couldn’t force him, so he resolved to keep an eye on Vince’s condition, just in case. 

“So what are you doing tonight, Howard?” Vince asked. 

Howard slurped his soup thoughtfully. “Going to bed?” he said. “I worked all day in the shop, little man. It was a busy day, and I was all alone down there. I’m exhausted.” 

“Oh, right,” Vince said, looking a little disappointed. “It’s just, I slept all day and now I’m not tired. I wonder if I’ll stop being nocturnal, ever.” 

Howard stifled a laugh. “Ever? Yes, Vince. Once you feel better and get your sleep schedule back on track, you’ll stop being nocturnal. The circadian rhythm is a fascinating thing, once—”

“Yeah, so, I might run over to Boots later if I feel up to it, just to get some sun-free fresh air. Maybe pick up some, uh, vitamin supplements,” Vince interrupted. He didn’t care about cicada rhythms at all. Plus, if Howard heard him getting ready to go out tonight, he figured this would work as a good excuse. Vince sighed. This whole “hiding your vampirism from your vampire-phobic best friend” was _exhausting_. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up. Vince wasn’t one for subterfuge and plans... that required too much thinking, and thinking was really more Howard’s thing.

“Good idea,” Howard said, nodding. “Need to keep up your strength in order to recover.” 

At least Howard didn’t seem to suspect anything. Not yet. Vince sipped his mug of blood slowly, keeping Howard company as he helped himself to seconds.

Howard excused himself after he finished eating, leaving Vince to watch television and finish his blood. But the prepackaged blood Naboo had gotten him was thick, cold, and starting to coagulate into a weird jellylike substance. It didn’t taste nearly as good as the blood he’d drunk last night, fresh from Ebola’s neck. 

Which reminded him... if he wanted to meet Anthrax and learn how to find someone who would let him suck their blood, he needed to get out of here soon. Luckily, Howard seemed just as tired as he’d said he was—he immediately headed to the bedroom to fetch his dressing gown, and a moment later, Vince heard him turn on the shower. A few minutes later, Howard emerged in his tattered camel dressing gown and headed to bed.

Vince waited an hour, half-watching the telly, just to make sure Howard was asleep. He tiptoed into the bedroom: Howard’s breathing was slow and even, and he didn’t even shift when Vince snuck in to rummage through his wardrobe for a suitably-gothic outfit and gathered his products to apply his makeup and fix his hair as he prepared for another night at the club.

Unbeknownst to Vince, Howard lay awake in his bed, hearing everything—Vince creeping around the room, getting dressed in a complicated-sounding outfit, his heavy boots clunking on the floor, the hiss of hairspray from the bathroom. He’d been far too keyed up to sleep, worried as he was about Vince’s rabies, going over the list of symptoms in his mind. Vince was sleeping all day and awake all night, was avoiding the sun, hadn’t eaten anything except that horrid red juice from Naboo… if Howard didn’t know better, he’d think Vince was a vampire—but that was ridiculous. Vince knew all about Howard’s vampirephobia, had done since they were kids, and he was respectful of Howard’s fear; he _never_ brought vampires or vampire-related paraphernalia into their home. 

Vince was _up_ to something, and Howard was going to find out _what._ He pushed himself out of bed, grabbing his dressing gown and shoving his feet into his fuzzy brown slippers, waiting for the door to the flat to slam before heading out to see what Vince was up to. 

Vince wrapped his fashionably vampy cape around himself—the air was cool even if he couldn’t _really_ feel cold. He made his way back to the Wartenburg Dungeon, surprised to find himself looking forward to it. He hoped the girls would show him how to find someone willing to be fed from, the way Ebola was for Anthrax. 

If only Howard—

His thoughts were interrupted by a clatter of trash bins. Vince let out a squeal and jumped, then instantly tried to regain his cool by flipping his hair dramatically. That’d be _well_ embarrassing if someone saw him looking so terrified when he was the apex predator. “Stupid alleycats,” he mumbled, but walked a little more quickly to the club. 

The bouncer let him in again and he found the girls quickly upon entering. Anthrax informed him, with a devilish grin, that she’d been scouting and found someone just perfect for Vince. Mouth pooling with saliva, Vince followed her eagerly. 

Meanwhile, Howard cursed himself for being so clumsy—he’d nearly given himself away down that alley when he’d tripped into the bins. As it was, he now stunk of refuse. To make it worse, in his haste to follow Vince, he hadn’t bothered to change out of his pajamas, and he felt slightly indecent wearing his soothing walnut-colored robe and matching slippers out in public. He watched from a distance as Vince ducked into a club called the Wartenburg Dungeon, and felt his face flush with embarrassment. 

Howard Moon was not nearly the man of the world he thought himself to be, but he was enough of one to know what kind of club it was. 

He warred with himself. On one hand, a man’s private business was his private business, and Vince had every right to do whatever he wanted. On the other hand, Vince allegedly had a deadly disease, and surely _that_ kind of activity would not be doctor-recommended for a speedy recovery. At best, Vince would make himself sicker. At worst, Vince could be infecting someone with his rabies-infected saliva. Surely whatever activities one indulged inside a sadomasochistic sex club involved the exchange of fluids, and Howard was pretty sure fluids were a vector of transmission for rabies. 

His nosiness, masked as concern for Vince’s health, won out in the end. 

The bouncer raised a skeptical eyebrow at him, eyeing his garbage-scented night clothes with skepticism. Howard straightened up and smiled, trying not to look creepy. The bouncer gave him another once over before motioning him inside. “I been working here a long time, seen a lot of things,” the bouncer said, “but I ain’t _never_ seen someone into whatever _you’re_ into.”

“Thank you?” Howard squeaked, unsure how to respond to a comment like that. The door slammed beside him, and he was inside.

It took Howard’s eyes took a few moments to adjust to the low, red lighting. People were clad in all manner of scandalous things—Howard daren’t call it “apparel”— and he was grateful that the bad lighting was hiding his blush. 

He scanned the room looking for Vince’s familiar form but to no avail. Swallowing his nerves, he kept to the perimeter of the club as he explored the venue. It was… a lot to take in. Howard had heard of BDSM but never _seen_ it before. People in bondage wear, acting out things with leashes and riding crops... it made him lightheaded to imagine _Vince,_ committing unspeakable acts in a dark corner with a stranger, sinking his teeth into their neck and… 

Then he heard someone moan, “Oh, _Vince,_ ” from a darkened alcove, and Howard plastered himself to the wall outside, listening close. 

He heard obscene noises—wet, sucking sounds, an unfamiliar man’s moans of pleasure peppered with Vince’s name. Howard had just about convinced himself that it was a coincidence when he heard a muffled, familiar sound: Vince’s throaty, pleasured moans. 

They’d lived together almost all their lives. That was _definitely_ the sound Vince made when he got himself off, thinking Howard was asleep. 

Howard’s stomach dropped. He wished he’d never followed Vince. He was about to leave when his curiosity got the better of him, and he peeked around the corner. 

A man he didn’t know was reclining against the back of the booth, his hands fisted in Vince’s hair, and Vince’s head was pressed against his throat. Howard turned to leave, but before he did, Vince pulled back and in the dim lighting, Howard was horrified to see a trail of what looked like blood-red liquid dripping down the man’s neck. 

Howard staggered to the entry. The club was stifling and the lights were making him dizzy. He pushed through the crowd back to the door, tumbling out into the cool night air to breathe it down in heaving gulps. 

Standing out in the fresh air, Howard was confronted with an unpleasant quandary: at this exact moment in time, he wasn’t sure if he was disgusted or aroused. His light head suggested disgust, but the situation in his pajama bottoms suggested something else entirely. Quickly, Howard drew his robe more tightly around himself, double-knotting the sash to hide his condition from the crowd as he started heading home. 

He made it back to the flat without falling into more garbage, but his mind was racing. He’d known Vince all his life and he couldn’t reconcile his best friend with the sensual scene he’d just witnessed at the club. 

Howard pushed inside the Nabootique and headed straight for Naboo’s room, barging in without bothering to knock. He needed answers _now._

Unfortunately, when Howard arrived at the flat, Naboo was not alone. The entire Shaman Council was staring stonedly at Naboo’s Magic Eye poster, all of them transfixed by the image they saw in its psychedelic depths save for Dennis, who was standing cross-eyed and muttering “I don’t see it!”

Howard didn’t wait for a scolding or acknowledgement from the Council. “Naboo, I need answers,” he said, still out of breath from his hurry home. 

“Come look at the poster,” Naboo lisped, not looking away. “It has all the answers you need.” 

The shaman nodded, still staring transfixed at the poster, all except Dennis. “I still don’t get it,” he muttered, going even more cross-eyed.

“No, dammit,” said Howard, his ire rising. “I need to know what’s gone wrong with Vince, and I _know_ it’s not rabies.” 

“Herpes,” Naboo deadpanned, still staring at the Magic Eye. 

Howard grabbed Naboo by the shoulders, shaking him roughly. “The truth, Naboo!” 

“Fine!” Naboo shouted, causing his fellow shaman (and familiar) to turn from the Magic Eye, and blink intensely. “He was bitten by a vampire the other night!”

Howard dropped Naboo to the floor, where he collapsed into a heap of robes. “I knew it!” he shouted, tearing around Naboo’s small bedroom in search of a wooden stake or some holy water. “Vince is a dangerous bloodsucking menace! Even as we speak, he’s over at some perverse sex club, sucking the blood of an innocent victim, infecting them with his—unholy affliction!” His heart was beating, and he had that weird feeling in his stomach (and a bit below that) that he always got when he thought about vampires. He decided to ignore that by stumbling blindly around Naboo’s room in search of some sort of vampire-killing implement, but considering the state of Naboo’s mess, it was impossible to find anything. “You’ve got to have a crucifix or something in all this mess, Naboo!”

“Why would I?” Naboo asked. “Besides, that’s rubbish.” 

“What?” Howard cried. 

“Crucifixes don’t hurt vampires. Neither does garlic. And Vince has a reflection, or you would’ve heard about it before now,” Naboo said. “And just biting someone doesn’t turn them, as long as you’re careful not to take too much.”

Howard’s knees gave out and he collapsed on Naboo’s unmade bed with a defeated groan. He hung his head in his hands, trying to think. A cool finger on his ankle brought him back to himself, only when he looked down it wasn’t a finger. It was a pink tentacle. 

“Don’t be sad, you great northern stunner,” Tony Harrison keened. 

“Of course I’m sad!” Howard howled. “My best friend is—is an abomination against nature!”

“You don’t really think that, lad,” Tony Harrison said. “You love Vince.”

“You’re absolutely codependent with each other,” Saboo added. “You live together, work together... You’re so far up each other’s bums that we have a betting pool on when you’re going to start shagging.”

“I’ve got 50 quid on you having done it already,” Kirk added. “Have you done it already?”

Howard glared down at the childlike shaman. “That’s none of your business! And this… this is too much, I need to go—” Howard said. 

“No, don’t leave!” said Tony Harrison, pushing him down with a tentacle. “Why do you hate vampires so much? What’ve vampires ever done to you?”

“Well, for one,” Howard started, “when I was ten years old, I watched Killer Vampires from Planet B, and I was scarred for life! Terrified that they were stalking the streets of London, infecting the unsuspecting masses against their wills, teaching them to crave the blood of virgins! I slept with a crucifix above my bed for years!”

“Ah, but fear is close to... arousal, is it not?” Saboo said.

“I’m not attracted to vampires! I hate vampires!” Howard sputtered. “They lurk, and they’re all mysterious with penetrating gazes, their fangs are all sharp, and the sucking…” The warm feeling in his stomach crept lower, and Howard flushed, cutting himself off before it got any stronger. 

“Sounds to me like the lady doth protest too much,” Saboo snickered. 

“Likewise,” Tony Harrison agreed. 

“What does that mean, sir?” Howard asked. 

“Sounds like you want to get off with one,” Naboo lisped. “And Vince would be perfect since we’ve all got money on you bumming anyway.” 

Naboo consulted his ledger. “Looks like I had 20 quid on this weekend, at 45:1 odds...”

“They haven’t shagged _yet,_ you beef-witted miscreant”, Saboo snapped. “Anyway, I have sixty pounds on Monday, at 38:1 odds, so don’t expect us to pay up until the deed has been done...”

His fellow shaman immediately began arguing over what kind of proof they’d need to collect on their bets, and that was enough for Howard. While the Shaman were preoccupied, Howard slipped out of Naboo’s room and into his own, staring into the darkness and trying to make sense of the evening’s events. 

Howard didn’t need to do much other than collapse in his bed, as he was still wearing his pajamas. He lay awake staring at the ceiling for a while, mulling over everything in his mind. The Shaman were _idiots,_ he decided. How could they be so stupid as to think he’d be _attracted_ to vampires? True, there was an element of sensuality about them, but that came second to the horror of them being undead creatures who needed blood to survive. This led Howard into a moral crisis on Vince’s behalf, since Vince obviously had no qualms about feeding on other people, as evidenced by the scene in the club. Which then led Howard down the uncomfortably arousing fact that what he’d seen in the club, although filthy and horrible, _had_ been… sexy. 

His thoughts tumbled like clothes in a drier until he fell asleep, completely unaware of Vince, well-fed and artfully disheveled, arriving home just before dawn. Vince got cleaned up and ready for bed, but before retiring for the day, he lingered by Howard’s bedside for a moment, gazing down at the sleeping Howard. He was sleeping on his side, his hair sticking to the pillow and exposing his neck. Before he could stop himself, Vince traced a finger down Howard’s neck, feeling the blood pulsing beneath his skin. It took all of Vince’s self-control not to lean down and take a taste for himself. “‘Night, Howard,” he swallowed. “Or ‘morning. Whatever.”

Howard released a snore, and turned in his sleep. The new angle hid his neck from view, and Vince slipped between the sheets of his own bed just in time. The sun popped over the horizon, a new day began in Dalston, and Vince drifted into dreamless sleep until sunset. 

The next morning, after double-checking that the blackout curtains had been drawn tightly, Howard stared down at Vince who was still asleep, perfectly still—like a statue. His chest didn’t rise and fall, he didn’t turn his head side to side to get comfortable (or avoid messing up his hair—even asleep, Vince was conscientious of his hair). He looked _dead,_ and Howard’s heart clenched at the thought. 

Howard’s brain then started a spiral wondering about the state of existence and the immortal soul, but before he got to the part about eternal damnation, he found his finger moving of its own accord to touch Vince’s cheek. It was white and cold as a flawless cut of marble. His full lips were red, his cheeks tinted the slightest shade of pink… Howard knew it was on account of the blood he’d consumed last night. The realization _should_ have disgusted him, but instead…

Vince had always been a little too close to looking like a pretty girl, but now, it seemed vampirism had enhanced his natural androgynous beauty. He was... magnetic, for lack of a better word. 

It was easy for Howard to imagine himself as the faceless man in the club last night, the one who’d tangled his fingers in Vince’s inky hair, then pressing that greedy, saucy mouth to his throat. He imagined that the bite would feel better than any Chinese burn, and then Vince would _suck_ , and how would that feel..? Howard could imagine it, so vividly that the burning in his belly flared.

Howard sucked in a deep breath, trying to control his wayward body’s reaction to the thought. But looking at Vince only made his problem worse, and he turned, storming to their shared bathroom to turn on the shower, and wrapping his trembling hands around his hard cock before he even got inside. He pumped himself a few times then stepped in beneath the hot water, and brought himself off to thoughts of Vince’s warm mouth on his neck, his sharp teeth penetrating the skin of Howard’s neck, almost as intimate as sex—

Howard came with a cry, reaching out a hand to steady himself against the tiled wall of the shower as he got his bearings. Could he have _gotten off_ to the idea of having his _blood_ sucked? No, that didn’t make sense. “I hate vampires,” he reminded himself, but his spent cock twitched, and Howard had to admit that maybe he didn’t hate vampires as much as he’d thought. 

If so, it would mark the first time the Shaman Council had ever been correct about anything—maybe he did _fancy_ the idea of vampires. Saboo had been right—fear and arousal weren’t so different, after all, and perhaps at ten years old, Howard had been too naive to know the difference.

Howard soaped himself perfunctorily, trying not to think too much about it. Saboo had to have been wrong. Otherwise, Howard had to admit that the last twenty years of his life had been little more than a lie. He’d let his vampire phobia prevent him from ever acknowledging, much less acting on his desires, and the knowledge that he’d denied himself a lifetime of pleasure over some stupid fear made him feel sick. 

Now, at the age of thirty, Howard was curious. But there was so much he didn’t know about vampires—no matter how much he wanted to, he was unable to act on his desires, because he didn’t know _how_. He wished he could talk to Vince. He had a lot of questions, and he was so curious—had Vince grown fangs? Were they always long and sharp, or did they only do that when he was feeding? If the garlic and crucifixes were nonsense, was the sunlight really bad for him, too? 

Howard checked his watch. He’d need to be down in the shop soon, and figured he’d only be able to speak with Vince once the sun went down. Before heading downstairs, he stopped at the bookcase in the living room, scanning the titles to see if Naboo had anything on vampires. He pushed aside Vince’s _Charlie_ books and his own copies of _Anna Karenina_ and _Ulysses_ that he’d never read (not yet, anyway), and found only a few books that might prove useful—a book on magical creatures, _The Care and Keeping of Vampires,_ and a worn paperback 4-in-1 volume of the _Twilight_ series.

He smuggled the books under his sweater and headed down to open up the Nabootique, intending to read them during work to maybe get a better idea of how to go about the whole “seducing a vampire” thing.

The Nabootique was quiet most of the day; there were few customers, affording Howard plenty of time to do his research. The old tome on mythical creatures only had one chapter on vampires, but it was so ancient it was spelled “vampyres” and involved a lot of Catholic stuff about communion wafers and holy water, so Howard moved along from that. 

The book on caring for vampires was much more useful, but highly academic in tone. He found himself rereading the same line over and over and not really retaining much useful information. Out of curiosity, he thumbed through _Twilight,_ and was so engrossed in the story that he started when the bell above the door jingled to announce a customer. 

Irritably, Howard assisted the middle aged woman who was looking for a record for her paramor, but mentally, Howard was in the foggy land of Forks, Washington, wondering how Edward and Bella would ever make their doomed romance work. 

After she left, he dived right back in. There was a lot of yearning and Edward seemed very sensible, concerned as he was with the state of Bella’s soul. Howard started to skim, to see if there were any sexy parts (for research), and was dismayed to find it wasn’t until Book 4 that Edward and Bella finally engaged in vampire-human relations. 

His breath quickened when Edward told Bella her ankle-length khaki skirt was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen her in. Clearly, everyone in this novel had very good sense. He certainly appreciated Vince’s colorful, skintight jumpsuits, but there was something thrilling about Bella and Edward’s modest beige wardrobes that was _almost_ as sexy as the neck-biting bits... 

He sat, rapt and reading, until Bella and Edward had finally consummated their love by destroying their marital bed. It was nearly ten o’clock when Howard finally looked up from his book to lock the Nabootique for the night. Granted, he hadn’t had any customers in the last five hours, but he’d been so engrossed in the _Twilight_ series that he’d barely noticed the time passing. 

Carefully, Howard hid his books in the cubbyhole under the cash register. Since Howard was the only one who did any _real_ work at the Nabootique, he figured his secret would be safe there. His flatmates certainly did not understand the concept of “private property”—Vince especially. Vince had a nose for secrets, especially Howard’s; if Howard was trying to hide something from Vince, Vince would, without fail, suss it out.

Thinking of Vince, Howard, flipped the sign on the Nabootique door to “CLOSED”. He knew he needed to figure out some kind of plan to convince Vince to bite him. But how?

He trudged up the stairs, still lost in thought, when Vince bounded over eager as a puppy wanting to play. “Hi, Howard!” he greeted. 

“Oh, erm,” Howard stammered. “Hello.” He noticed Vince was drinking something out of a mug, through a straw this time. Instead of revulsion, Howard felt… warm. “How are you feeling?”

“Alright,” said Vince. “Good now that I’ve rested. But I’m well bored, Howard, do you want to play Go Fish or something?” 

Howard stretched and feigned a yawn. “Not tonight, little man. Busy day at the shop, you know.”

Vince looked like he was biting back some kind of response to that (the Nabootique being more of a front for laundering Naboo’s illegal drug money than a legitimate business meant that they rarely had any actual customers), and stirred his drink with the straw. “Alright then. Maybe I can ask Naboo to hire someone to help down at the shop, while I’m still recovering from my, uh, rabies and all.” 

Howard’s heart squeezed. Poor Vince, dealing with losing his immortal soul, and he was worried about losing time with Howard. 

“That’d be great,” he said. “I’m knackered, but maybe tomorrow.” He feigned another yawn and headed to the bedroom, where he promptly slid into bed, waiting for Vince to leave the flat for the night. If Vince went back to that seedy club tonight, Howard resolved to follow. 

It didn’t take long before Howard heard Vince start to patter around the flat, getting ready for his evening out. One final spritz of Goth Juice, and Vince pulled on his platforms and clunked down the stairs. 

As soon as Howard heard the bells over the door of the Nabootique, he sprang out of bed and began to tear through his own wardrobe in search of something suitable to wear to a vampire sex club. Unlike Bella, Howard did not own any long khaki skirts, but he hoped he could cobble together _something_ that would drive Vince wild. 

He settled on using a black fringed wrap as a cape, covering his all black attire (thank God for his beat poet phase), and topping it off with the hat that prompted Bob Fossil to ask if he was Zorro on Gay Night. It was a good look, if he said so himself. Suitable for that club. At least, more suitable than his dressing gown and slippers. 

When he arrived at the club, the bouncer gave him another appraising look. “Last night it was trash tramp, tonight it’s Gay Zorro. You’re a kinky one, ain’t you?” he asked, grinning wryly. 

“Um, yes, sir. Very kinky,” Howard stammered. The bouncer leaned forward and leered a bit as Howard edged past him and into the club. Had the bouncer been... flirting... with him? Howard checked back over his shoulder. The bouncer was _definitely_ checking him out. 

It was awkward, but it did give him a little confidence boost. Vince was a connoisseur of fashion, but perhaps he would be impressed with Howard’s costume. He did, after all, have a thing for capes. 

Immediately upon entering, Howard scanned the club. There was no sign of Vince on the dance floor, nor was he sitting at the bar, which meant that Vince had to be in one of the private booths, quite possibly with his... victim... for the night. 

Cursing himself for having taken so long to get ready and giving Vince a considerable head start on his evening, Howard began to case the alcoves and booths lining the edges of the club in the hopes that he would be able to find Vince before he fed for the night. Howard might have only just learned that he was _into_ that kind of thing, but he’d been into Vince for _ages_ , and _Howard_ deserved to be the one whose blood Vince was sucking, not some random clubgoer. 

Just as he was beginning to get frustrated, he heard Vince’s laugh—the fake one he used when he was trying to charm people into doing what he wanted, emanating from the booth to Howard’s right. 

Howard’s stomach fell. He had to get in there, _now._

He turned the corner and without thinking entered the booth. Vince was gazing flirtily at his companion, a short, slim person with caramel-colored skin and curly hair. They were wearing a ruffled blouse and sequined strong-shouldered purple jacket, who gazed flirtily back, their bare, smooth neck on display. 

Vince turned, his blue eyes wide with surprise. “Howard?” he asked. 

“Who the hell is Howard?” asked Vince’s victim. 

“I am,” said Howard. “Howard Moon, sir. Or ma’am. Or whatever.” 

“What’re you doing _here,_ Howard?” Vince cried. He sounded surprised, but not upset, and he trailed his eyes up and down Howard, taking in his ensemble. “And why’re you dressed like that?”

“I came to find you, little man,” said Howard. Vince’s date placed a hand on their throat, gasping softly. “I know what you are, and we need to talk, and you need to know that I don’t care. I just want…” His voice trailed off. 

“What do you want?” Vince asked quietly. 

Howard met his eyes before replying, “You.” 

Vince’s conquest rose to their full 5’2” height and straightened their purple coat. “Seriously?” they huffed. “I was about to get sucked, and you forget all about me when Gay Zorro shows up? 

“That’s not Gay Zorro,” Vince pointed out. “He’s my flatmate, the one I was telling you about? The vampirephobe?”

His conquest rolled their eyes and squared their shoulders. “Looks like you two have a _lot_ to work out, and this has been sweet and all, but I’m out here trying to get sucked tonight, and as much as I’d like to stick around, I should get going.” They blew a flirty kiss and sashayed sassily back into the crowd, leaving Howard and Vince to have some privacy. 

“They’re right. We do have a lot to work out,” said Vince, scooting out of the booth. “We need to talk and stuff, and we can do that at the flat, where it’s quieter.” He grabbed Howard’s hand in his and pulled him from the booth, out the side door and into the alley. As the door slammed shut behind them, it muffled the din of the music, and Vince broke the silence. “You really don’t care that I’m a vampire? I mean, you banned vampire movies from the flat, and you go crazy every Halloween, with the crosses and the garlic and stuff—”

“I meant what I said, Vince,” Howard murmured, his hand tightening around Vince’s. “And um, I may have done some thinking, and erm, I may not hate vampires as much as I thought?”

“Wait, what?” Vince asked.

“Well, um, maybe it wasn’t vampires I was afraid of. Maybe it was I was afraid of myself, of how vampires... made me feel...”

“What are you saying, Howard?” Vince bit his lower lip, somehow looking tempting and innocent at the same time.

“Well, uh, Vince, I would like—I want—I want you to _bite me!_ ” Howard shouted.

Someone wolf-whistled at Howard’s admission. “Get it!” they shouted, then erupted into laughter. Poor Howard went red, and shoved a hand over his mouth, embarrassed.

Vince shook his cape out, putting an arm around Howard’s shoulder and drawing him close. “That’s OK, Howard,” he said softly. “I want to bite you, too.” He smiled, showing off his fangs. 

Howard made a strangled noise and fixed his gaze steadily on his shoes, too sheepish to make eye contact. He was so cute, all pink and embarrassed like this, that Vince just had to kiss him—just a brush of lips against lips, and the faintest hint of fang.

When Vince broke the kiss, Howard stood stunned on the sidewalk. Vince swallowed a chuckle and draped his cape around Howards waist. “Let’s go home, Howard,” Vince said, and dragged Howard back to the Nabootique. 

Once they arrived at the flat, they raced up the stairs and to their shared bedroom, hoping not to run into Naboo or any other magic men from outer space. In their room, Vince helped Howard unwrap himself from his makeshift cape and tipped the hat off his head, running his fingers through Howard’s smoke-like curls. “Kiss me,” he ordered, his voice a rough whisper. 

Howard happily obliged. 

It was strange, Howard thought, how quickly they settled into a rhythm. He never imagined kissing would be like music, but it was. It was like a jazz duet—neither of them had practiced, but they were doing it together, lips and tongues and teeth playing off each other in perfect harmony. Howard shivered in delight when Vince opened his mouth so willingly, little sighs of pleasure tumbling out. Vince’s hands cradled his face like he was something precious, and Howard wondered why they hadn’t started doing this sooner. 

Vince drank down Howard’s kisses as though they would satiate his thirst. In a way they did—he’d been dying for a taste of Howard for _years._ Strange, he thought, that he’d have to become a vampire for this to finally happen (there had been rather less blood in his fantasies before the bite and all), but it had and he was over the moon with happiness. 

Vince led them over to Howard’s bed (it was tidier) and gently pushed Howard to sit on it. Vince pressed himself next to Howard, dragged his fingers through Howard’s hair, and let their tongues battle as he deepened the kiss. He smiled against Howard’s lips and pressed kisses to Howard’s jawline, which made the breath in Howard’s throat catch delightfully.

“I know this is your first time,” said Vince, pressing a kiss to Howard’s neck. “I’ll be as gentle as possible. It’ll only hurt for a second, then I’m told it’s quite nice. Do you want me to lay down a towel?” 

Howard pulled back. “We’re still talking about biting, right?” he asked. 

Vince rolled his eyes and grinned, his sharp canines glinting in the dark room. “ _Yes,_ Howard, just biting.” He pressed a kiss to Howard’s lips. “Although,” he purred, running a hand up Howard’s thigh, “if you wanted to do more, I’d be open to that too...” 

Howard swallowed thickly. “Just… just biting for now.” 

“Okay,” whispered Vince. 

“Do you get off on it?” Howard asked, sounding nervous. “On… drinking blood?”

Vince looked confused by the question, then incredulous, then shook his head. “No. I mean, I _could,_ probably. But I haven’t. It’s like eating, Howard. I guess it could be sexy but so far, it’s just doing something I need to do. Seems to have an effect on the people I drink from, though.” 

“What kind of an effect?” Howard asked.

“They moan, and sigh a lot,” Vince said. “They seem to really like it. Like they’re getting off on it.” He stroked the side of Howard’s neck, making Howard shiver. 

“And you... do you get off with them too?” Howard asked. 

Vince leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Howard’s neck. “No. I—I didn’t want to,” Vince moaned into the warm skin of Howard’s throat. “You smell so good, Howard. Living with you, sharing a room with you when you’re warm and sleeping… it’s torture. You smell delicious.” He pressed the flat of his nose against the thumping vein in Howard’s neck. Vince’s mouth filled with saliva and he opened his mouth, scraping his teeth against the thin skin. “I want to taste you so much, Howard,” he whined, pressing hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses to Howard’s throat. 

Howard whimpered, snapping the final thread of Vince’s self-control. He dragged his tongue along Howard’s neck, feeling for his pulse. “I’m gonna bite you now,” Vince moaned. “Tell me you want it, tell me I can, Howard, please—”

“Bite me, Vince,” Howard moaned, and Vince sank his teeth in.

Howard’s blood spilled across his tongue, thick and sweet. It tasted like the pretentious single-malt scotch Howard liked to drink, and Yorkshire tea and honey. Vince took a long, deep sip, and the suction caused more blood to spill into his mouth.

Vince let out a moan and pulled Howard into his lap. He pressed their torsos together, and Vince could feel the heat of Howard’s cock where Howard was straddling his thigh. He let out a moan, and Howard shivered, the heat of his prick against Vince’s thigh growing warmer. 

Vince kept sucking. Howard let out a cry, grinding down on Vince’s thigh, and Vince carefully extracted his fangs to give Howard an open-mouthed kiss.

At first, Howard was surprised by the taste of blood on Vince’s tongue, coppery and _animal_. But the tender way Vince twined their tongues together, and the rhythmic way he was pressing his thigh against Howard’s erection, made his squeamishness fade quickly. He gently yanked at the shaggy ends of Vince’s hair, pulling him closer, pushing himself back against Vince’s leg.

One of Vince’s hands snuck down between them, deftly undoing his own fly before reaching to stroke Howard’s cock through his tight leggings as his erection nudged Howard’s belly. Howard whimpered, desperately trying to hold back—it wasn’t easy, considering he was fulfilling both of his greatest, most secret fantasies at once: getting sucked by a vampire _and_ getting off with Vince, at the same time.

Just as fear and arousal were, as it turned out, very closely related, sexual pleasure and the nominal pain of being bitten were also very close for Howard. His neck didn’t hurt at all, but the pinch he’d felt there burned through him, deepening his arousal. The fear of it, the anxiety he’d been harboring, coupled with the queasy, light-headedness of knowing he’d just been fed from and left him feeling like he was floating on a sea of pleasure and physical sensation. If this was what it was like being high, it was no wonder Naboo was so fond of it. 

Through it all, Vince held him, slight but solid, encouraging Howard to thrust against him. Howard panted, trying to keep control even as Vince stroked more quickly—Howard was so hard, torn between letting go and not wanting it to stop. He managed to hold on, just barely, but then Vince shifted, pressing their pricks together—Howard in his black tights, and Vince in his brightly-patterned briefs. Despite the fabric between them, Howard could still feel the hard heat of Vince’s cock against his. “Vince, I—I’m gonna—”

 _“Yes,_ ” Vince hissed, and Howard let go.

Vince stroked him through it, until Howard was nothing but a panting, babbling mess. It didn’t take long for Vince to follow, and he collapsed onto Howard, pushing them both into the mattress.

They lay tangled together for some time, Howard resting his head on Vince’s chest while Vince gently licked the wounds on Howard’s throat to seal them. He pressed a kiss to Howard’s forehead, and whispered, “Thank you,” feeling sated in more ways than one. 

“Vince,” Howard murmured, half-asleep. 

“Hmm?”

“Gonna have a little sleepy, but then we can go again before sunrise,” Howard mumbled, nuzzling into Vince’s shoulder. Vince chuckled to himself, and decided to try and rest. Even if he couldn’t sleep, he could wake Howard in an hour or two to hold him to his word. 

In the room down the hall, sat in a circle beneath the Magic Eye Poster, the Shaman were counting out their money. 

“I _told_ you they wouldn’t wait til marriage, you idiot romantic,” Saboo spat as Tony Harrison pushed a stack of notes towards him. 

“I was so close. So close,” Naboo moaned. “If they’d only done it _before_ midnight..”

“You’re two hours too late. Pay up,” Saboo sniped, holding out his palm. Naboo reached into his robes for his coin purse and grudgingly counted out 1500 Euro. Damned Saboo and his eerie predictive powers. Naboo was sure he was either getting into some dark, dark magic, or else he’d taken so much Adderall he could see the future.

And damn his stupid kinky tenants. It had been weird enough living with Vince and Howard when they’d just been an electro ponce and a jazz freak, _before_ Vince’s untimely change and Howard’s rather shocking reaction to it. Now he was living with a vampire and a vampiresexual.... Naboo was going to have to plan a trip back to Xooberon to visit his relatives soon.

He’d have to sit through endless questions about when he was going to give up his Earthly ways and settle down with a nice Xooberonian lifeform, but he figured it was worth it just to avoid existing on the same planet as Vince and Howard during their honeymoon period. Maybe he could come back in a month, or three, and they’d be less prone to loudly amorous bouts of bloodsucking. Naboo could hope. 

  
  
  


**EPILOGUE**

Howard got up from his chair to replace the record with a swoop of his tweed cape. The fabric was heavy and stiff, and didn’t quite swoop properly, but Vince had tried to convince Howard to wear a proper cape so many times over the years, and Howard had always refused, so he kept his observations to himself.

Howard had an eternity to figure it out. He was a new vampire, after all; he was bound to have an awkward adolescent phase while he figured out his look. He was still insisting that he could be a proper vampire and wear _brown_ , of all things, but Vince couldn’t blame him: he’d had a few awkward early vampire years of his own, where he sort of looked like late-80’s Madonna for a while. In his defense, looking like 80s pop stars had been sort of a trend among the vampires of London at the time. 

Even now, three decades later, he still couldn’t look back at the pictures without cringing. But in the years since, he’d settled into his own look, glam-rock vampire. It was a timeless look, and it had served Vince well.

“The tweed cape again, Howard?” Vince teased. 

“Yes, sir,” Howard teased back. “It’s timeless. Does that offend your sensibilities as a vampire?” 

“No,” scoffed Vince. “It offends my sensibilities as a person with _taste._ ” 

Howard put the needle on the record, then took the opportunity to see what kind of taste, exactly, Vince had: sweet, like candies and milkshakes, as it turned out. Becoming a vampire hadn’t diminished his sweet tooth, although he had discovered a fondness for blood-flavored Haribo. 

Vince didn’t seem to mind as Howard’s face got more lines, or when his hair got shot through with silver—he’s had a crush on Howard since they’d been teenagers, and had appreciated Howard’s leaner lupine years, but Vince held off on turning him until Howard had the chance to live a little more. Howard had groused and whined and begged to be turned while he was still young and attractive, but Vince had insisted.

Which sounded very noble, but in all honesty, Vince had just been waiting for Howard to reach peak hotness. And the morning after Howard’s 55th birthday, when the moment was just right, like waiting for the perfect time to bite a ripe fruit, Vince turned him, and neither had looked back. 

They’d moved into the country house a few years ago. It had been old and dilapidated, and the neighbors had long whispered amongst themselves that it was haunted, a suspicion that wasn’t helped by the fact that the new owners were never seen during the day, only at night. But they’d soon fixed it up, replacing the ancient cracking windows, leaking roof, and painting the outside a bright pink with purple trim, something Howard only permitted when he’d lost a bet during a game of Go Fish. Of course, Vince had cheated, but he’d never tell Howard so (how could he be expected to live inside a _brown_ house?), and eventually the neighbors had warmed up to the vampires next door.

Their house was an especially popular place for trick-or-treaters on Halloween night. While Howard had never loved the holiday (in fact, he found it even more intolerable now that he was part of the immortal undead), Vince went all out with decorations. This year, he’d not only decorated the entire ground floor of their house with with jack-o-lanterns and hanging skeletons, he’d placed a full-size coffin, one of their spares, in the front yard, and rigged it with a pulley and a motion-detecting device to reveal a rather macabre papier-mache vampire. 

The neighborhood kids liked to dare each other to ring the bell of the “vampire house”, this year was no exception. Almost as if on cue, the doorbell rang, and Vince broke the kiss, earning a little wounded sound from Howard. “Oh, quiet you,” Vince shushed, grabbing the plastic pumpkin stuffed with sweets from where it sat on the coffee table and rushing to the door. He took a moment to check his reflection in the mirror.

He still looked as young and beautiful as ever, if Vince said so himself. He looked especially good tonight—he’d donned his most Dracula-esque cape, and even put on eyeliner and a line of fake blood running down his chin, to celebrate the occasion, much to Howard’s chagrin. 

Makeup check complete, Vince swung the door wide to a chorus of “Trick or treat!” A diminutive witch, Batman, and a washing machine stood at their doorstep, and Vince happily handed out candy as the children admired his costume. 

“You make a great vampire!” the washing machine told him. The cardboard boxes from which the little boy had made his costume made it impossible to bend his arms, and he had to stand sideways for Vince to place the candy into his bucket, an industrial-sized bottle of laundry detergent with a hole cut into it. Vince gave him an extra sweet. “And I love Sherlock Holmes,” the boy said to Howard. “The Hound of the Baskervilles is my favorite.” 

Howard rolled his eyes. “I’m not Sherlock Holmes. I’m a vampire, too.” 

“Vampires don’t wear brown,” the kid insisted. 

Vince cackled out loud and said, “Told you.” 

“Oh, really?” Howard asked. He focused on Vince’s throat, his Adam’s apple dancing with laughter, on the blue-green veins peeking through Vince’s pale skin, and felt his fangs elongate with bloodlust—and a healthy dose of regular lust, too. He turned and snarled, baring his fangs at the little boy in the washing machine costume, who shrieked and stumbled to catch up with his friends, screaming, “He’s a vampire!” 

Vince shut the door, still smiling. “You didn’t have to do that! He’s just a nipper.” 

“Sherlock Holmes, indeed,” Howard mumbled. “Stupid holiday. Stupid kids.” 

“Well,” Vince said, stepping closer to Howard and wrapping his arms around the larger man, effectively putting them both inside the brown tweed cape. “I think you look dead sexy, Mr. Holmes.” 

The doorbell rang again, but Vince had to sneak a kiss before answering. The doorbell rang again, followed by an aggressive knock. A quick look in the mirror proved that Vince had smudged his makeup, but he didn’t bother to fix it. It looked a little more gruesome this way, scarier. 

Vince bared his fangs. Maybe Howard was onto something with the whole “scaring the children” thing. “Trick or treat!” he said in his spookiest Dracula voice, and opened the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope this made Quarantine Halloween a little spookier--and sillier--for everyone stuck at home this year.


End file.
